


locks

by fatalize



Category: No. 6 (Anime & Manga), No. 6 - All Media Types, No. 6 - Asano Atsuko
Genre: Gen, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-31
Updated: 2019-03-31
Packaged: 2019-12-30 03:29:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18307277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fatalize/pseuds/fatalize
Summary: Nezumi had cut his hair short. Shion had let his grow long. Nezumi is on his way back to No.6, and Shion is a workaholic.





	locks

**Author's Note:**

> This was meant to be a sort of prologue or chapter 1 for a multi-chapter reunion fic. But I really have no patience to write something that long lol, and I liked how this piece came out, so I figured I'd post it as a standalone. Depending on what I decide to do with the other half-chapters I've already written, this could either actually become something longer like I originally intended, be a series of nonlinear one-shots, or end up being a standalone after all. Who knows! We'll see. But regardless, I hope you enjoy this fic!

No.6 was still No.6 and at the same time it wasn’t.

It was building-new, it was wall-less, it was free of the oppressive atmosphere that once quilted the air like see-through smog. Yet No.6 as it was would always exist in some capacity, whether it be in the city itself or in Nezumi’s memory or in some vague philosophical concept that existed in an ethereal, otherworldly collective human consciousness, this fallible utopia; things could be forgotten or rebuilt but never erased, never entirely swept out of existence, never truly gone as long as humanity still existed. But the city itself was a healing No.6 nonetheless.

Healing was a strange thing, jagged and slow-burn. Nezumi had come to realize that for the first time when he decided to cut his hair, his Eve hair—a whim, really, no longer having a use for it to be so long. He didn’t need it to be long but he didn’t need it to be short, either, so choosing to cut it was a too-simple decision, a shrug, a _why not?_ He took his knife out of his jacket, sawed it off, and tossed the orphaned strands into a nearby stream, watched them scatter and separate themselves into individual thin lines downriver, becoming anonymous.

He didn’t think of it as freeing until a little later. Mostly he felt that his head was lighter now, that his ears were more exposed, that there was no longer anything to tie up or let down.

But to make the simple decision of cutting his hair, to change, to become something new, was healing in a way he hadn’t expected.

Over the years he let it grow sometimes and then cut it short when he felt like it. It was short again, now, although it was just starting to get past his ears.

Only now, on his way back, the city in his sight line, did Nezumi wonder what Shion would think. Not that he ever cared or questioned what Shion—or anyone, really—would think of his appearance before; he knew what they thought. The canyon of time had made him slightly self-conscious, and a small doubt sprouted in him that Shion may not even recognize him.

But he had come all this way. Seeing the city itself was only half the journey.

At the edge of the former West Block, the breeze was gentle. It brushed lightly through Nezumi’s hair, glided past him to the town, and continued on into the open city of No.6.

* * *

Shion lifted his head from his desk, brushing a few strands of hair from his face only for them to fall back in place again. He rested his face in his hands. He must’ve forgotten his hair pins, again. Shion ran a hand through his hair. He must’ve fallen asleep at work again, too.

He tied his hair back with one of the hair ties he kept on his wrist. Those were easy enough; those were hard to forget if they were always on him. Besides, he only needed the hair pins if he didn’t want to put it up; his hair was long enough now that pretty much all of it fit into a ponytail without needing to be pinned.

 _Do you like your hair long?_ Karan had asked him once, on a day it was especially shaggy and all over the place, unbrushed, probably unwashed, too, since Shion couldn’t always remember when he had washed it last. She was concerned, but she was being kind, probing the topic without jumping to it directly.

 _Yeah,_ Shion lied. _It’s nice, for a change._ Really he just didn’t have the time to get it cut, nor did he care to. So what, it was getting long—it made no difference to him. The minutes he could spend fixing it were minutes he could also spend working.

Karan could tell, though. But she kindly held her tongue, only looked at him with her soft-sad eyes, and Shion tried to reassure her with a _Don’t worry, Mom, I’m fine._

It was a light, flimsy lie, tissue paper to cover the present truth that Shion was tired and would be tired and the only thing to make him less tired would be to quit, something they both knew he wouldn’t do. So they both let it be.

With his hair all neatly ponytailed now, Shion looked at the stack of papers around him. Stuff to read. Stuff to organize. _I wanted to get it done by today, but I doubt I’ll be able to…_

He went through the work robotically, muscle memory mechanics. Tori eventually came in to tell him it was time to go home. Shion stayed five more minutes, then turned all his lights off, the once-busy building an empty hive now, and left. Outside the world was dimming, too, past sunset, dusk shades of darkness. When he woke up in the morning the sky was still blanketed black, stars burning holes through the sewn abyss. When he woke up the next morning, and the morning after that, the morning of every day and many mornings later, it was the same.


End file.
